Those Who Mourn

By Catherine Rider

This painting is in the chapel of St. Martin of Tours in Troy, AL. While taking refuge in this chapel, I was struck by the posture of the people in this painting, particularly the woman in purple. It is such a normal posture for a grieving person. It is a posture that I have taken many times. It is the posture of someone who is emotionally drained, whose whole world has changed, who is, in short, overcome with sorrow, hopelessness, and worry. And it is in stark contrast to the postures of every other person in the scene because of one thing: she looked away.

She looked away from the suffering, dying Lord. Away from the person she knew; the one who promised everlasting peace, comfort, joy, justice, mercy, and hope. While I don’t know what the artist was trying to convey, as I sat in the chapel, I imagined the woman feeling completely abandoned by God, maybe even doubting if He was the Messiah after all. And if He was the Messiah, HOW would things work out like they should and WHY did it have to be this way? I identified more with this woman than anyone else in this scene.

How many times have I looked away and asked, “why this, why me?”. How many times have I contemplated the Cross and still said “but my suffering is so unfair”?

I thought of others who have parts of scripture dedicated to the stories of how they looked away. David. Samson. Jonah. The Israelites wandering through the desert. And one of the most resounding ones to me: Peter.

Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, “Lord, save me!”

Immediately, Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. “You of little faith,” He said, “why did you doubt?”

As we wade through Advent, maybe it is easy to doubt. Maybe you are struggling with the external happiness of a world that is home to death and darkness. It can be easy to forget that the birth of Christ was also the beginning of His death; that Mary and Joseph would soon flee across the desert with an infant who was being hunted. We forget that Simeon would soon tell Mary that her heart would be pierced with swords. The Incarnation is not Christ coming to relieve us of misery, but to suffer with and for us in the ultimate example of Love. 

The hymn “What Child is This?” has lyrics that are often either replaced with cheerier lyrics. The original words of the second verse are:

Why lies He in such mean estate

Where ox and ass are feeding?

Good Christians fear for sinners here

The Silent Word is pleading.

Nails, spear shall pierce Him through,

The cross be borne for me, for you.

Hail, hail the Word made flesh,

The Babe, the Son of Mary.

The Nativity, Lorenzo Lotto, 1523

The Baby in the manger is the same Man on the cross. It is not uncommon for representations of Christ to be scrubbed of the reality of His suffering, whether he be depicted as a baby or in His crucifixion. It’s one way that we look away. We question the end or the meaning of the middle when it gets too much or too confusing, and we look away. We think that looking away helps us, but often looking away just causes us to close ourselves off to others. 

When I look away from Christ, I am also looking away from Hope and Joy and Goodness and Truth. My thoughts become consumed with ideas of unfairness and what I do or do not deserve. Those thoughts are not from God, and they are an opening for doubt and despair. There is so much I will never understand, and so much that I wish didn’t have to be. I don’t know if I will ever be able to say that I’m grateful for the suffering. But I hope that one day, I can get to the point where I no longer look away. 

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